


Naked as a window.

by andrea_deer



Category: Sherlock BBC, pairing:sherlock/john - Fandom, rating:pg13 - Fandom, status:complete, type:prompt fill, warnings:angst, words:1001-5000
Genre: Angst, Aromantic!Asexual!Sherlock, F/M, Gen, Other, Prompt Fill, asexual!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-09
Updated: 2010-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was easy to explain why young Sherlock was not interested in falling in love or having sex. The older he gets the less amount of labels fit him, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naked as a window.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current location:**   
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[somewhere beyond the Tesco](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=somewhere%20beyond%20the%20Tesco)   
  
---|---  
  
**Current mood:**   
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accomplished  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[category:ace!fic](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/category%3Aace%21fic), [fandom:sherlock bbc](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/fandom%3Asherlock%20bbc), [pairing:sherlock/john](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/pairing%3Asherlock%2Fjohn), [rating:pg13](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/rating%3Apg13), [status:complete](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/status%3Acomplete), [type:prompt fill](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/type%3Aprompt%20fill), [warnings:angst](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/warnings%3Aangst), [words:1001-5000](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/tag/words%3A1001-5000)  
  
  
_**Naked as a window (Sherlock BBC)**_  
With all my love for dirty slash and cravings for some Sherlock porn, I keep on writing aromantic asexual Sherlock fics. *shakes head* One of these days I actually will finish a fic that I plan and not something that randomly steals my brain.

 **Title:** Naked as a window.  
 **Characters/Pairing(s):** Sherlock &John, Sherlock&others. John/Sara, John/other.  
 **Rating:** PG13  
 **Warnings:** aromantic!asexual!Sherlock, angst, intolerance.  
 **Spoilers/Timeline:** Happens in undefined time after all three episodes.  
 **Summary:** It was easy to explain why young Sherlock was not interested in falling in love or having sex. The older he gets the less amount of labels fit him, though.  
 **Word Count:** 2,698.  
 **Beta:** The most awesome [](http://scienceofdeduct.livejournal.com/profile)[**scienceofdeduct**](http://scienceofdeduct.livejournal.com/) who quieted the mocking voice of Sherlock laughing at my grammar in my head.  
 **Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me. And I sort of enjoy this lack of responsibility. I even stole a title. I have no shame what so ever.

 **A/N:** Written for a prompt from [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/). I know it’s in good style or whatever to post properly in comments and anonymously, but a) it turned rather long and b) I really have issues with posting anonymously.  
OP expressed their need for “some angsty asexual Sherlock fic” and I decided to oblige them. Hopefully I somehow succeeded, even though I killed the angst with a happy end. Blame John, not me. [Full prompt here.](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10039020#t10039020)

* * *

“No, no, I’m not asking… No. I’m just saying: it’s all fine.”

Sherlock looks at John's eager, friendly face and hopes that it really will be fine. This conversation is awkward and annoying, but perhaps this time it will be enough.

“Good,” he says shallowly. He wonders for a second what else he could offer. “Thank you.”

* * *

Sherlock is a genius, but he doesn't cluster his brain with useless information, which is why he doesn't remember when was the first time he told somebody he's not interested in sex. Or relationships. Or love. He vaguely remembers people ruffling his hair and laughing. 'You will understand it, when you'll get older.'

He was pretty sure it was a lie. (After all, they used to say the same thing about Chemistry.) And yet he had no way of proving it until he did get older. Perhaps, after all, people did go through some metamorphosis while growing up. You get bigger, you have skin problems, you grow hair in new places, your voice breaks until it deepens into the adult timbre and suddenly you evolve into a dependent creature that needs human contact, company and affection.

Doubtful, but not impossible.

He clearly remembers, though, when it started worrying him. When the mysterious change was still not coming, but it apparently turned everyone else. When the looks of his parents were turning more and more worried and concerned. When the various therapists he was sent to looked more and more surprised when he told them about his lack of interest in the opposite sex.

They asked if he was interested in his own sex and he saw it like and outing, but a false one, nonetheless. He had no interest. In anyone. And it seemed to be worse than any other answers he could come up with.

He eventually stopped talking about it. Avoid the subject as much as he could. He feigned interest, he agreed on the label of late bloomer even if it seemed ridiculous. He was more mature than anyone his age he knew.

But people seemed so keen on trying to shove him into some box, label him, as if a correct name would explain everything. Perhaps, for them, it did. And Sherlock hated their small minds, incapable of comprehending anything outside the tiny frames they were told to work around, but what he hated even more was that he didn't have an answer for them. He would be at peace once he would finally figure it out. It wouldn't have to be something the common people would understand, but he needed an answer he could shove at theirs faces!

See? There's an explanation! A name for what I am! A logical, realistic, sensible explanation!

…

I'm not a freak.

* * *

"Sherlock, you need to stop interrupting my time with Sarah for your cases." Sherlock only rolls his eyes, but John continues stubbornly. "I'm serious, Sherlock."

The consulting detective snaps the book shut and puts it back on the table by his armchair. He stares at John now, placing his elbows on his knees, his fingers touching at points and his head slightly lowered. The older man shifts in his chair, noticing, what he called Sherlock's 'deducing' pose and with a slight dread expecting the next words from his flatmate. Sherlock smirks knowingly.

"Your first date was interrupted, twice if I recalled, involving a shooting out, trip to the Scotland Yard, and being kidnapped. Obviously she still harboured some feelings for you since she let you sleep on her sofa or, lately, the lilo. However your attempts at more romantic encounters tend to end up in similar friendship-like environment. She obviously cares for you, the mentioned welcome in her place, the obvious fact that she always offers you a home-cooked meal while you're at her place, and your brown shirt you wore two days ago suggests she's not only frightened of ever going out with you again, she's frightened you are at horrible risks yourself. She, as a person clearly caring for others, judging by her career choice mostly, but also obvious close family relations with both siblings and a nephew, adapted her caring for you in more maternal, protective way."

John pursues his lips, glaring at Sherlock. He seems eager to snap at his friend, but from experience Sherlock knows the angry words were not the first thing that will come out of John's mouth.

"My brown shirt?" he asks finally and Sherlock smiles back calmly.

It feels good to know someone so well. Expect his reactions, but still not get bored by them. Enjoy them, in fact.

"The hole on its sleeve was sewed in perhaps not much better, but yet different way than your usual army-taught expertise."

The silence falls between them. John calms himself down and Sherlock waits for John's conclusions. Calmly, not trying to startle him into any unwelcome ways of action.

"So... relationship with Sarah is a bust?"

"Precisely," nodded Sherlock with a smile.

"Fine, that's... fine," John smiled much brighter than the context suggested and his friend frowns, feeling as if he was just masterfully played though he has no idea yet how. "Believe it or not, I came to similar conclusions. Well, except the maternal feelings part, because ew, gross. Which is why I'm going out with Mary tonight. She’s a charming girl I met at the shop the other day, and if you again ruin my date, I will strangle you in your sleep, are we clear on that?"

"It's charming how protective and loyal you are towards the girl you've just met and I can bet deduced nothing about. Do you honestly believe it could turn into any kind of meaningful relationship?"

John shrugs, looking vaguely unmoved by the small possibility of it happening.

"Maybe. Or maybe it will just be a great shag. God knows I could use that, you know?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes with mild disgust he always feels when John chooses to remind him how mediocre he tends to be, between his fascinating shines of brilliancy.

"I am vaguely familiar with the concept, though not personally interested."

"Yeah, you're..." John's smiled turned into a frown. "What, you mean, like never?"

"Married to my work, remember?" pointed out Sherlock. _You said it's all fine. Remember?!_

"Well, yeah, I get it. You're a workaholic, you don't do relationships, but sex..."

"I don't 'do sex' either, John. Not interested."

"What, but... How can you be not interested? It's sex!"

Sherlock groans in frustration, burrowing his face in his hands. It was the bloody solar system all over again!

* * *

It seemed the older he got the higher the pressure was. Twelve-year-old spending all his time with books and experiments was a weirdo and a dork. Annoying know-it-all. Sixteen-year-old with no interest in dating scene was a freak. His mother kept on pushing him towards other people. His father said it was acceptable that he was a loner, but he wouldn't convince someone much less observant than Sherlock. So Sherlock tried to do better.

Perhaps it was just something he had less talent in. He was born way smarter than people he knew, he was told he's prettier than most too. Perhaps his price to pay was to not understand urges that made people crave things like holding each other, pressing against each other, exchanging saliva. People’s senses were dulled, and they never observed, but never got overwhelmed by sounds and tastes and smells and textures... Perhaps Sherlock's senses were dulled in another way. He was unable to create those bonds and emotions he was supposed to be having, but he wasn't crying for nights in pain after a broken heart either.

He cried in frustration. Because he couldn't understand why he wasn't created properly.

* * *

It was a warm, summer night. Sherlock was sixteen and anxious to finally leave for the university in October and start gathering new data; he already knew his house better than anyone ever living or working in it.  
He went through the darkness, avoiding the screeching floor panels and quietly making his way towards the room on the other end of the hallway. He slowly, quietly, opened the door knowing the figure lying on the bed already knew he was there. He never managed to slip into this room unnoticed. Not when he was three and just checking if his nightmares weren't true, not when he was six and feeling too old to be comforted after a bad dream, not even when he was fourteen and he was just testing if he could.

He walked over to the bed, sitting on it and shuffling his cold, bare feet under the covers. The figure laying on the bed still had his back turned to Sherlock, but there was heard a small sigh. More nostalgic than annoyed.

"'Crofty?" started Sherlock very quietly. He hadn't called his brother that in years. Not in a non-mocking way. When he was very young and just starting to talk, he said it like that, and Mummy picked it up. It was the only person ever allowed to use it. Mycroft was always the nicest and kindest with Mummy. Young Sherlock tended to use his nickname not to mock him only when he needed this softer version of his brother. When he woke up terrified or was deadly embarrassed and had no one else to turn to. Mycroft was as smart as Sherlock, but he also did understand people. It was never fair. "I think... I think there's something wrong with me."

Mycroft stayed silent for a long while before finally exhaling a slow breath.

"What have you done?" he asked slowly and Sherlock frowned.

"I haven't done anything. What do you mean what have I done?" exploded Sherlock petulantly.

Mycroft turned on his back and locked his eyes with his younger sibling. His gaze careful and observing. Judging Sherlock’s reactions.

"I know you believe the therapists you see are irrelevant, but you need to tell me if you answer their questions truthfully."

 _Do you fancy anyone in your school? Does human touch feel awkward to you? Do you feel attracted to anyone you know?_

Mycroft's facial expression was guarded as if he expected the worse. And Sherlock knew there might be something wrong with him, and there were expectations he wasn’t fulfilling, but it couldn't be bad enough to scare Crofty… It couldn't be that wrong that he lied a bit about it, it couldn't be...

And suddenly his mind cleared as he remembered those other questions. Those he didn't lie about, but felt fear just because they asked him them at all. Just because they felt they needed to.

 _Did you ever kill an animal? Do you ever feel strong emotions like anger or fear? Did you ever do something dangerous to feel the thrill, like jump of the high roof or hurt someone?_

Sherlock slowly got up and left Mycroft's room, ignoring his brother's calls. The next day their mother called in another therapist, and Sherlock answered another set of questions. This time he lied to those that Mycroft feared as well. He finally found a label that others seemed to understand. Mycroft spent this whole summer at home, visiting family for far longer than he previously planned. Sherlock never again went to his brother like that, no matter that Mycroft realised his mistake, no matter how scared or lonely Sherlock felt. It wouldn't be seen to have a sociopath walking the hallways at night.

* * *

"But... Are you sure? Never? With no one? Maybe you haven't done it right," chuckles John. Sherlock glares at him icily and John raises his hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry, it's just... wow."

"I would appreciate it if you'd try to not act as if your doubtful level of IQ was doubly reduced. No, I've never had or was interested in having sex. And please spare me the 'how can you know then if you've never tried it'. I've heard it more often than I would care for; people are much less imaginative with their arguments than you'd think. I am not interested in sex, with anyone. Even if I'd try to have it just to gain data about it, it would be pointless, since I'm obviously not attracted to it like other people seem to be. And I'm not waiting for the right person either. And my hormone levels are just fine, trust me it's one of the less offensive tests I needed to endure. Not to mention-"

"Al right! Al right!” interrupts John, sounding slightly overwhelmed. His voice turns pitiful and slightly worried. “You hear a lot of those, don't you?"

Sherlock snorts, his voice bitter as he answers: "An understatement."

* * *

The university was the worst. Full of the people keen on learning and broadening their horizons. Hormonal and finally free from the house full of rules and expectations. Students doubt everything: theories, mentors, rules, sexuality. They experiment sometimes to deduce what their sexuality is exactly, who in particular do they fancy. They don't, however, doubt the fact that you need to fancy _someone_.

The short, caring girl with her blue, smart eyes that spotted Sherlock in Chemistry lab looked sad when he finally told her. She asked in frightened, but eager to help tones, if he wasn't abused and felt very small and stupid under his cold stare. He never spoke to her again.

Sebastian laughed and patted him on the shoulder patronizingly.

"I envy you, weirdo. You'll avoid so much drama, trust me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Yes, being a sociopathic freak was so much easier.

There was a red-haired boy with whom Sherlock shared a dorm. He was tall, taller than Sherlock even. He studied literature and was of no use to Sherlock, and so deleted mostly out of his memory shortly after the change of roommates. The boy said: "You just weren't with me yet." And walked away with pride hurt deeply, when Sherlock laughed till there were tears in his eyes.

Irene spent a month as Sherlock’s studying partner before fully realising exactly how much more attention he gets just by stating he's not interested at all. He never wanted to hurt a woman as badly as he did her, when he heard her chatting up some guy and explaining how she doesn't quite like sex, because no guy ever gave her an orgasm. It worked like magic. And ridiculed him so profoundly.

The university was the worst, but thanks to that, nothing later on came that Sherlock was not prepared for. His shields strong, his self-diagnosis well-known and accepted as truth, he's caring in the opinion of others as low as it was ever going to be.

By the time the Internet brought him the right label and people who believed in it and attached it to themselves, he didn't feel the need for their acceptance anymore. But he did let out a small breath of relief. He wasn't a freak.

He smirked smugly.

Told you so.

* * *

"So, you're totally..." John tries again, as he always does when he doesn’t understand what Sherlock shows him. Reaching for concepts beyond his understanding, and grasping blindly until he clutches them himself or Sherlock puts them calmly in his hands.

"Asexual is the word you’re looking for. And not in the sense that I reproduce with myself," he dismisses quickly and John snorts at this vision. "I am aromantic asexual, I experience no sex drive and I do not fall in love. Ever."

"Okay."

"It is rare, but it does happen. There are others."

"Okay, okay, I believe you. It's... yeah..." John keeps on nodding his head and Sherlock sighs. He wants to smack his friend. He vaguely wishes he had all they established that first day written down and signed by John.

"You said it's all fine."

"Yes. Yes, I did. And it is... fine. Really... hard to understand, but then again whenever weren't you?” he smiles and says once again, his voice sure: “It's fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares at him carefully for a long moment, but eventually smiles back softly. Perhaps now, finally, for a while, it will be.

* * *

  


* * *

  



End file.
